After breakfast, Barra led Alma down the steep, narrow path toward the main road. Their cottage sat on a high ridge, isolated from the other lodgings. From that vantage point, they could spot anyone approaching from miles away—a tactical advantage that came with a physical price. Every trip down felt like a mountain trek, and every climb back was a test of endurance.
Barra had been reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the cabin. If it weren’t for their desperate need for warmer clothes, he would have preferred to stay hidden inside. The air in Bromo was different; it wasn't the sterile chill of an air conditioner. It was a raw, primordial cold that seeped into the marrow of your bones, carried by a wind that smelled faintly of ancient ash and dry earth.
He watched Alma as she reached the main road, letting out a breath of relief. She hadn't let go of his hand once, gripping him as if he were her only anchor in a shifting world. The road was beginning to buzz with life—tourists wrapped in colorful ponchos, local horsemen trotting toward the 'Sea of Sand,' and the distant hum of vintage jeeps. It was a thirty-minute walk to the *pasar kaget*—the morning "surprise market" that vanished as quickly as the mountain mist by noon.
“Mia, don't cling so hard. People will get suspicious,” Barra teased softly. “Remember, we’re supposed to be brother and sister.”
Alma instantly yanked her hand from his waist, blushing. “Fine then, Brian,” she giggled, sticking to their cover names.
Her eyes drifted toward the horizon where the Bromo crater stood in majestic silence. The volcano was a jagged crown against the pale sky, its peak draped in a thin, ethereal veil of fog. “It’s breathtaking, Bar…” she whispered, humbled by the sight of the rugged caldera.
Barra nodded. “One day, we’ll come back here as tourists. We’ll climb to the rim and watch the sunrise properly.” He pointed toward a group of hikers descending from the trail, their faces flushed from the morning frost.
Alma nodded, but a shadow crossed her heart. She knew they weren't tourists on a holiday; they were fugitives on the run. She looked at Barra’s profile—the way he walked with such steady purpose. If only Papa understood... how he protects me... She reached out again, sliding her hand back into his.
Barra caught her gaze. “What is it?”
Alma just shook her head, a soft smile playing on her lips behind her mask.
“Look at you, getting all excited just for a trip to the market,” he teased.
“I’m happy, Bar. If Papa never agrees to this... I’d let you kidnap me forever.”
Barra burst into a loud laugh, so genuine that a few passersby turned to look. “You know the term ‘Stockholm Syndrome’?”
Alma tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“It’s when a kidnap victim falls in love with their captor.”
“Like me?” Alma laughed softly.
Barra feigned a pout. “Actually, thinking about it... I think I’m the victim here, Al.”
Alma stifled a laugh behind her hand. “Oh, so I guess I have ‘Barra Syndrome’ then.”
The tension that had shadowed them for days seemed to evaporate in the mountain air.
When they reached the market, the scene was a riot of color. Makeshift tents lined the narrow street, overflowing with thick parkas, knitted scarves, beanies, and hiking gear. The scent of grilled lamb satay mingled with the aroma of steaming Javanese coffee.
Alma was like a child in a theme park, her eyes darting from one stall to another. She had never been to a place so raw, so vibrant, and so far removed from the sterile luxury of her father’s world.
YOU ARE READING
Kidnapping the General's Daughter
Любовные романы"He thought he was rescuing their love. He didn't know he was just driving her escape." Barra is a brilliant law student, a high-achiever who built his future on a prestigious scholarship. He plays by the rules and carries the weight of his mother's...
